I wrote this article a year ago. My son is now three and no longer crawls onto my chest at the hair dressers, but other than that everything else is the same. At this rate my hair will still be a wreck when my kids leave for college.
I’m going bald. Slowly but surely I am losing my hair. It’s nothing genetic. It’s not even the ravages of time. It’s my son. He constantly yanks my hair. But then again it could be me. I pull my hair out all day long as I battle with my children for control of our family. I think I’m winning the battle, but who cares? I’m living my life in a bad hair daze.
Perhaps it’s just me but I find mothering difficult. I just can’t seem to keep up with the endless demands of my brood and their constant need for correction and guidance. For much of the day I feel like I’m about to explode. Somehow I manage to keep it under control and talk to my children with some civility. But it takes extreme measures to do this. Hair pulling is one of them. You really should try it sometime. Just bury your fingers deep into your curls (if you have natural curls I hate you), pull hard, slam your eyes shut and stifle a scream. Now, doesn’t that feel better?
The only problem with this coping technique is that my out-of-control hair always makes me look frazzled. Oh how I admire women at the check-out stand with thick, beautifully coiffured hair. It speaks to me of peace and balance and well-mannered children. They seem so calm and in control. And they never, ever have kids tugging on their shorts whining for candy.
Even a trip to the hair salon doesn’t assure me of nice hair. Maybe I’d have better luck if I didn’t bring my children with me. Both of my toddlers think it’s great fun spinning mommy’s chair around and around while the poor hairdresser attempts to cover my gray hairs with young, revitalizing color. Their giggles tell me there is nothing rejuvenating about the process.
Even the relaxing head massage that comes with the shampoo and rinse is usually offset by my two-year-old climbing onto my chest to play in the sudsy sink. He prefers my lap during the hair cut too. He just sits there and stares, open-mouthed, at mamma’s transformation. His gaze soon turns to a grimace. He rarely likes the results of my hairdresser’s efforts. Everybody’s a critic. I don’t bother to have my hair blown dry or styled. What’s the point? My son is wrestling with it even before we leave the salon.
Playing with my hair has always been a favorite pastime of my children. As newborns they batted at my hair while I nursed them. Once their fine motor skills were more developed they began twirling my hair with their fingers whenever they sat on my lap. Now, when I carry my son up the stairs to go to bed, he desperately pulls on my locks in an effort to slow me down and redirect my steps.
One of these days I’m going to chop my hair off and be done with it. I would have done that a long time ago but my husband prefers me to have long hair. Sigh! I suppose it really doesn’t matter. I’m getting used to stumbling around in a bad hair daze. But some day soon I’m going to find another way to keep control of my family, and myself. I hear holding your breath while counting to a thousand works quite nicely!
